Claire stayed in her room most of the following day. Availing herself of the computer on the rolltop desk, she searched for any reference to lycans or werewolves. Instead of giving her a clearer picture, her head ached from trying to sort through a myriad of myths.

Gideon didn’t show himself. She heard the back door slam early that morning and watched as he jogged off down the street. She noted his return an hour and a half later, drenched in sweat, muscled biceps gleaming in the morning sun. The sight made her breasts tighten against her shirt.

At eight o’clock she headed downstairs. A quick survey revealed the living room and kitchen empty. No sight of Gideon anywhere. She inspected the fridge. Typical bachelor fare. All the drinks she could want: orange juice, Gatorade, Diet Coke, beer, beer—she pushed aside a carton of expired milk—more beer. Aside from a box of baking soda there wasn’t anything to eat.

Hands on her hips, she called out, “Gideon?”

“In here,” came a muffled reply.

She followed his voice, opening the door that led to the garage. No vehicles occupied its stifling confines. A large fan whirred in the corner, the only thing circulating air in the enclosed space. The scent of freshly cut cedar and oak assailed her. Suddenly she knew why he always smelled of wood.

The garage teemed with machinery: a table saw, drills, and other tools she didn’t know the names for. A large workbench scattered with various hand tools lined one side of the garage. Two rocking chairs, one large bookcase, and a dresser filled most of the remaining space.

Gideon sat on a stool, chest bare and glistening with perspiration as he sanded one of the rocking chairs. Her mouth dried as she watched his biceps flex and ripple in a fascinating dance of muscle and sinew. Her palms itched to touch that tanned skin. Instead, she rubbed her hands together to stop from reaching out.

“Hey.” He leaned back on the stool and wiped the back of his hand across his brow, revealing the slightly paler underside of his muscled bicep.

Oh God. She swallowed. The skin would be soft as velvet there. Her gaze roamed the faint pattern of blue veins, wanting to trace them with her fingers.

His gaze flickered over her, and she held her breath, waiting for his reaction. She wore a shimmering turquoise halter top that dipped low and loose between her breasts. Shocking attire for a woman who never once wore a bikini at the beach. Her low-rise black jeans hugged her hips. The entire ensemble made her feel bold, sexy, and a little bit like the teenage girls in her class who flaunted their bodies and twisted boys into knots.